therealmhs

[therealmhs]

Just gonna leave this here... It's Monday and I need to see this smile.

[therealmhs]

this is the best beach look EVER

[therealmhs]

Athena's Gift

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Mortal Reader

Part 8: The Professor

PLEASE COMMENT AND ENGAGE. IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME. I LOVE YOUR PREDICTIONS!

Later that night, in the Dreaming

Professor Ellery Grant dreamed.

He did not dream of the epics he lectured on, nor of the dusty classrooms where he lorded over his students. His dreams were sharper, more revealing, and more dangerous.

Tonight, he dreamed of you.

In the dream, the lecture hall was empty, rows of chairs vanished into shadow. You sat alone at the front, light clinging to you like dawn breaking. He approached slowly, his papers falling from his hands, scattering unnoticed across the floor. His gaze never left you.

“Stay,” he whispered in the dream, though in waking he would never dare. His hand reached for yours—lingering, possessive, sliding too far. The scene shifted; the dream reshaped itself into his desire. The classroom blurred into the intimacy of a smaller room, a desk, his body leaning closer, his breath warm against your skin. In his dream he imagined more than conversation. Much more.

And Morpheus was there.

Silent, vast, endless.

From the shadows at the edge of the professor’s mindscape, Dream watched. His eyes, cold and fathomless, burned with restrained fury.

He had seen Ellery Grant’s dreams before—threadbare anxieties, petty jealousies, the arrogance of a man who wielded knowledge like a weapon. And he had seen enough to know the man’s appetites ran beyond what was proper. Grant had dreamed of many students before: fleeting images, inappropriate touches blurred into lessons, power twisted into desire. Dreams Dream had tolerated with cold distance, for such base hungers were all too mortal.

But this time was different.

Tonight, it was you.

You sat at the front of his classroom, light clinging to you while the rest of the hall dissolved into shadow. The professor drifted toward you, his papers spilling unheeded across the floor. His eyes fixed on you with the hunger of a man who imagined himself entitled. His hand reached—lingering, possessive, sliding too far.

Shadows rippled through the dream as Dream’s fury rose. What he might ignore in the general filth of mortal lust became intolerable now. To see you placed among those others, dragged into this man’s fantasies—this was a trespass.

The desk splintered beneath the professor’s reaching hand. The room darkened, swallowed by shadow.

“Enough,” Dream’s voice thundered, shaking the dream itself.

Grant gasped, stumbling back, clutching at his chest as the image of you dissolved into smoke, torn from his grasp.

From the shadows, Dream stepped forward, no longer only a looming presence but fully revealed—tall, pale, vast. The folds of his cloak spilled out like storm clouds, and the light of the dream bent away from him. His eyes, fathomless and merciless, locked on the professor.

“You have dreamt of many before, and I looked away. But you will not dream of her.”

The dream twisted around them. You reappeared for a heartbeat, sitting at a desk, light clinging to you as though you belonged to another world. The professor’s hand twitched toward you—hungry, reaching—

—and Dream’s shadows surged, dragging the vision from him.

Dream’s voice rumbled, colder than stone. “You were meant to teach them. To guide. To shape knowledge, not desecrate it with desire. You look upon your students and see prey. That is corruption. That is rot.”

Grant fell to his knees, shaking, the walls of the classroom buckling inward.

Dream’s pale gaze did not waver. “You profane my name in your lectures, reducing what you cannot comprehend to a myth for amusement. And worse—you would dare twist the sanctity of learning into indulgence for your hungers. She is not yours. She will never be yours.”

The blackboard split with a thunderous crack. Desks burst into splinters. The air turned heavy, suffocating, until the professor’s breath came in sharp, panicked gasps.

Dream bent closer, his voice a low whisper that scraped through the marrow. “If you dream of her again, you will not wake.”

The dream shattered, leaving Ellery Grant to jolt awake in his bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. The image of you was gone, replaced only with fear—and a single name lingering on his tongue, though he did not understand why he spoke it.

Morpheus.

***

Meanwhile, in the waking world, the same morning dawned pale and cool. You were sipping coffee at the kitchen table when the familiar knock came at the door.

Your father stood there, smiling faintly in that way only he could, a scarf looped around his neck, his hand already reaching for Ophelia’s. She darted to him with delight, bag bouncing on her shoulder.

“Zoo today, grandpa?” she asked brightly.

He chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Zoo, and then maybe the cinema if we’ve got time. We’ll see what adventure finds us.”

These “grandpa dates” had become a ritual—Saturday mornings filled with animals, exhibits, or films that left Ophelia bubbling with stories when she returned. And though you always missed her, you also cherished the rare sliver of hours they bought you.

Because in the quiet interim, while she was away, you had plans of your own.

A date. Again.

With Morpheus.

Your pulse quickened at the thought, an odd mix of anticipation and nerves. He was strange, impossible, unlike anyone you had ever known—and yet, here you were, setting aside the morning for him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Ophelia had darted off to her room, humming to herself as she stuffed more “essentials” into her little backpack—two stuffed animals, a sketchbook, and a crayon tin rattling against the zipper. You lingered in the kitchen with your father, sipping the last of your coffee.

Hob leaned against the counter, watching you with that half-smile that always seemed to carry both amusement and concern. “So,” he said casually, “what are your plans while I steal her away for the day?”

You hesitated, fiddling with the rim of your mug. “Nothing much,” you started, then sighed, giving yourself away. “Actually… I have a date.”

His brows rose, and for a heartbeat he looked more like the man who used to tease you as a teenager than the steady grandfather now standing before you. “A date?”

You nodded, cheeks warming. “Yeah. While she’s out with you. Just a little day trip to the countryside and some conversation.”

Hob’s eyes softened, though the amusement lingered. “Good. You deserve that. Someone who makes you smile again.”

You ducked your head, tracing a finger around the mug’s rim. “He’s… different. Strange, even. But I like talking to him.”

Hob tilted his head, studying you a moment longer. He didn’t press, didn’t demand details—just offered the faintest nod, the kind that told you he would be thinking about it all day.

From down the hall, Ophelia’s voice called out, “Grandpa, I’m ready!”

Hob pushed himself off the counter, still smiling as he reached for his coat. “Alright then. I’ll bring her back full of sugar and stories. And you—” he tapped the rim of your mug lightly, “—you just enjoy your date.”

***

The house felt strangely hollow after your father and Ophelia left, their voices still echoing faintly in your ears. You let the silence settle for a moment, then pushed yourself up from the table.

A shower first.

Steam curled around you, washing away the morning chill. By the time you stepped out and dressed, the nervous flutter in your chest had become a sharper thrum of anticipation. You pulled on something nice but casual, not wanting to overthink it. He wasn’t the kind of man who cared about clothes… was he?

You had planned something simple. Ordinary. Something you hadn’t done in years but always loved—an afternoon wandering through an antiques fair out in the countryside. Stalls set up in the open air, selling everything from old books to chipped teacups. The kind of event where you could lose hours in the smallness of things.

At precisely 10 o’clock, there was a knock at your door.

Your breath caught. He stood there as he always did—tall, impossibly still, his coat dark against the pale morning light. The ordinary world seemed to warp faintly around him, shadows pooling at his heels as though reluctant to leave him behind.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low, careful.

You smiled, stepping back to let him in. “Always on time,” you teased. “Let me just grab the car keys.”

The keys jingled in your hand as you glanced at him with a grin. “Do you want to drive?”

He blinked, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I cannot.”

You tilted your head, amused. “What, you mean you don’t want to?”

His gaze held yours, grave as ever. “I do not know how.”

For a beat you only stared, the laughter bubbling out before you could stop it. “You’re telling me you’ve never driven a car? Not once?”

“No,” he said simply, and somehow his utter seriousness only made it funnier.

You shook your head, still smiling as you slipped the keys into your pocket. “Well, that settles it. You’re riding shotgun.”

His brows drew together ever so slightly. “Shotgun?”

You laughed again, pulling the door open. “I’ll explain on the way.”

You jingled the keys once more before pocketing them, stepping outside. He followed, the shadows at his heels dragging reluctantly across the threshold, dissolving in the daylight.

He moved toward the car as if it were a puzzle set before him—studying its lines, the shine of its windows, the slight rattle of the door when you unlocked it. You slid into the driver’s seat, motioning for him to do the same.

For a moment, he simply stood there, coat falling around him in dark folds, regarding the passenger side door. Then, with slow deliberation, he opened it and folded himself into the seat, as if entering some strange ritual.

You grinned, starting the engine. “Welcome to shotgun.”

His pale eyes flicked to you. “I see no weapon.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you eased the car into gear. “It just means the passenger seat. An old saying from when people used to ride beside stagecoach drivers with… well, shotguns. To fend off trouble.”

He regarded the dashboard, the trembling dials, the hum of the engine. “You trust machines for your safety.” His voice carried that same deep solemnity that made everything sound like a prophecy.

“Most of the time,” you said lightly, pulling onto the road. “Besides, I’m a good driver.”

The silence stretched, companionable yet charged. Sitting so close, you could feel the faint weight of his presence filling the car. Even with the heater humming, the air around him seemed cooler, threaded with something not quite earthly.

At a red light, you glanced sideways. He was watching the blur of traffic with something almost like disdain, but when he caught your eye, his gaze softened.

Without really thinking, you reached over, your fingers brushing lightly against his thigh. Just a small touch—warmth meeting the cool fabric of his coat, a reassurance more than anything.

His head tilted, those pale eyes darting briefly down to where your hand rested before returning to your face. “Should you not keep both hands upon the wheel?” he asked, voice low, serious as stone.

You smothered a laugh, giving his leg the smallest squeeze before pulling your hand back to the steering wheel. “Traffic law isn’t that strict. It was a red light, I wasn’t about to crash us.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, unreadable, as though filing away this new piece of mortal behaviour. Then, very softly, he said, “Then I suppose the gesture was not unwelcome.”

Your pulse skipped, heat creeping up the back of your neck, and you were suddenly grateful the light had turned green—so you could focus on the road again and not on the way his words made the air between you thrum.

***

The rest of the drive slipped into a curious quiet—your focus on the road, his gaze fixed on the landscape blurring past the windows. Fields unspooled into the distance, damp and green under a sky still heavy with clouds. He watched it all intently, like someone committing every fencepost and hedgerow to memory.

When you pulled into the gravel lot by the fairgrounds, the sound of chatter and music drifted on the breeze. Bright bunting fluttered between stalls, the air thick with the scents of frying dough and fresh-cut grass. Families with strollers, couples arm in arm, children darting underfoot—the comforting chaos of a Saturday market.

You killed the engine, slipping the keys into your bag. “Here we are,” you said brightly.

He stepped out of the car with the slow precision of someone handling something fragile. His coat swept over the gravel, his pale eyes scanning the throng of people with an expression caught somewhere between disdain and uncertainty.

“It is… crowded,” he observed, voice cool, detached.

You smiled, bumping your shoulder against his as you fell into step together. “That’s kind of the point. Markets are messy. That’s what makes them fun.”

He gave you a sidelong glance, the faintest crease pulling between his brows. “Fun,” he echoed, as though trying the word on for size and finding it ill-fitted.

You grinned and tugged him toward the nearest row of stalls, where the smell of fried dough gave way to the dry, papery scent of stacked boxes filled with second-hand books.

The tables overflowed with cracked spines and curled pages, old bindings pressed together in uneven towers. You reached for one absently, thumbing through yellowed pages, but when you glanced at him, you caught something unexpected in his expression.

He was staring at the books—not with disdain, but with quiet intensity. His hand hovered over a stack before finally picking one up, the movement slow, deliberate. The cover was worn, the lettering almost faded away, but he held it as though it were something fragile.

“You like these,” you said softly.

His pale eyes flicked toward you, then back to the book. “They have been… handled,” he said after a moment, his thumb brushing over a crease in the page. “Read, marked, passed from one to another. They carry… memory.”

You tilted your head, watching the way his fingers lingered along the fragile binding. “That’s what I love about them too. They’ve lived whole other lives before ending up here.”

For a moment, he was utterly still, caught in the quiet weight of the book in his hands. The noise of the fair moved on around you—laughter, footsteps, music from a nearby stall—but he seemed content in that small bubble of stillness, lost in the presence of paper and ink.

You smiled, nudging him gently. “So… maybe not fun, but at least interesting?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Yes. Interesting.”

He lingered over the stack, lifting another book from the pile, the spine cracked and softened from years of turning. His thumb brushed idly over the dog-eared corner of a page, gaze caught on the faded print as though it mattered more than the bustling crowd around him.

You found yourself watching him, the strange intensity he gave something so ordinary. It made you want to fill the silence.

“My daughter loves books too,” you said, surprising yourself a little at how easily it came out.

His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and curious.

You gave a small laugh, glancing down at the jumble of titles. “She’s still young—can’t read them yet. But she insists on carrying them around, like treasures. And at night, she won’t sleep until I’ve read to her. Same story, over and over.”

Your hand drifted across a battered copy of Peter Pan, its green cloth cover frayed at the edges. “She’ll choose this one, or something with animals. Always brings the book to bed like it’s a stuffed toy. Half the time she’s asleep before I even get to the last page.”

When you looked back at him, he was still holding the book he’d taken from the pile, but his gaze wasn’t on it anymore. It was on you—steady, quiet, as if weighing the shape of your words.

After a pause, he lowered his eyes to the spine resting against his palm. His voice came quiet, thoughtful. “And what stories do you choose for her?”

The question caught you, simple but earnest.

“Mostly the classics,” you admitted, glancing down at the heap of worn covers. “Fairy tales. Peter Pan. Sometimes the ones I loved as a kid—though she never lets me skip the animal ones. She’s obsessed with them. If it’s got a dog, or a rabbit, it’s a winner.”

He brushed his thumb absently over the brittle edge of a page, as though tracing the years it had survived. “And she listens?”

You smiled softly. “Always. Even when she’s half asleep, she holds on to every word. It’s like she needs the story before she can let go.”

He studied you a moment longer, then turned the book in his hands, regarding its weight as though it held more than ink and paper. “There is a power in what we read aloud,” he murmured, almost to himself. “More than most would believe.”

You tilted your head, curious. “What do you mean?”

His eyes lifted to yours again, steady and searching. “You said she asks for this one.” His long fingers brushed over the frayed green cover of Peter Pan. “Again and again. Why that story? Why does she return to it?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the seriousness of the question. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the flying. Or Neverland. Or just… the idea of not having to grow up. Children get attached to things without explaining why.”

His gaze lingered on you, unreadable. “Or perhaps they know more than they can say.”

Something in his tone made your skin prickle, though you laughed it off, tucking the book back into the stack. “Well, whatever the reason, she loves it. And I’ll keep reading it until she doesn’t.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he set the book in his hand carefully back on the pile, as though it were something precious.

Before you could turn away, his fingers brushed yours—and then closed around your hand.

You froze, startled by the deliberate weight of the gesture. His hand was cool, long-fingered, a contrast against your own warmth. He didn’t look at you when he did it; his gaze was already moving toward the next row of stalls, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Still dazed, you let him guide you forward, weaving through the crowd until the din of chatter gave way to the clink of glass and the metallic glint of old objects spread across a wooden table.

The stand was piled with curiosities—pocket watches with cracked faces, candlesticks dulled with tarnish, trays of mismatched keys. Among them lay a small globe, the paint chipped, its continents faded with age.

He slowed, eyes fixed on it. For the first time since you’d arrived, you saw something more than detachment in his expression—something like wonder.

His fingers brushed the curve of the globe, turning it just slightly on its axis. “Strange,” he murmured, voice almost reverent. “That mortals would try to capture the world in something so small. That they would hold it in their hands, and believe it could be known.”

The word caught you again. Mortals. He had said it once before, in passing. You didn’t comment, but the thought snagged and lingered—odd, old-fashioned, like something out of a book he hadn’t realised sounded strange anymore.

You let it go.

Instead, you let him lead you away from the globe, weaving through the fair as the afternoon unfolded. You stopped at stalls without much thought—old postcards curled at the edges, coins rubbed smooth with use, maps fraying at the seams. He lingered over each one, not rushing, not careless. His attention was so absolute it made ordinary things feel weighted, significant.

The two of you walked hand in hand, your conversation meandering as naturally as the path through the stalls. You told him more about Ophelia—her stubborn streak, her delight in asking why a hundred times in a row. He listened in silence, his thumb occasionally brushing against yours in a way that felt grounding, steadying.

When you turned the questions back on him, he spoke of history in a way that made it sound alive, not dusty or forgotten. The shape of stories passed down. The way people left traces of themselves behind. He never spoke of himself directly, but you felt the echo of something older in his words, like he’d seen more than any book could ever hold.

By late afternoon, the sky had grown heavy again, the clouds bruised with the promise of rain. The fair was beginning to thin, vendors packing away their wares. You looked at him, still impossibly composed among the bustle, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Ready to head back?” you asked.

His eyes met yours, pale and steady. “If you are.”

The drive home was quieter, the hum of the car and the rhythm of rain beginning to patter against the windshield filling the silence. He sat with the same stillness as before, but you could feel the subtle weight of his presence beside you, like a shadow that wasn’t unwelcome.

When you finally pulled into your street, the world felt softer, smaller, as though the day had been its own dream folded between morning and evening. You cut the engine, keys jingling in your hand.

For a moment neither of you moved. The air hummed with everything unsaid.

You sat for a moment in the quiet, the engine ticking as it cooled, the steady patter of rain against the windshield filling the space between you. Your fingers curled around the keys in your lap, nerves humming.

At last you turned to him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I would ask you to come up with me…” You hesitated, searching his eyes. “…but my father will be back soon with Ophelia. And I think it’s too early for me to introduce you to her.”

For a heartbeat, silence lingered, and you worried you’d said the wrong thing. But then he inclined his head slowly, solemnly, as though you had spoken some great truth.

“I understand.” His voice was low, without disappointment, only certainty. “It is enough that you wished to spend this day with me.”

Something in his tone settled the flutter in your chest. You smiled, softer this time, relief easing the tension in your shoulders.

“It was a good day.”

His pale eyes held yours, steady, endless. “Yes. It was.”

The words seemed to carry more weight than they should, more than the simple day you’d shared. You opened your door, the cool damp air rushing in, and stepped out. He followed, lingering a moment beside you at the car, the rain silvering his coat.

Neither of you reached for more, but his hand brushed yours briefly—deliberately—as you parted.

And then he was gone, as quietly as he had arrived, leaving you with the sound of the rain and the faint echo of his presence still at your side.

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[therealmhs]

[therealmhs]

The Daughters of Dream and Memory

Summary: Summary of yours (Memory) and dream daughters that will be featured in the other stories. A concept piece exploring how these concepts impersonation were born from the evolution of yours and dream union.

Notes:

Sorry for the grammatical errors. Thank you for reading. do not translate or appropriate my work

Comments and kudos are highly appreciated :)

Memory was old as Death, older then Dream. A concept needed the time the first being died. When Dream appeared, he and Memory were two sides of the same coin because to dream was to remember, one was reality and past, the other was future and wonder.

And from what might be and what was, From your union with Dream five concepts , five daughters were born :

Hope

Nostalgia

Regret

Imagination

Hallucination

Hope was your first born because to Dream and to Remember was to Hope for better times. She was born in the golden years of yours and Dream’s love, and was a symbol of hope for the future. Hope is very similar to her aunt Death, optimistic and kind. Hope looks forward, but always glances back at the past. Hope is when memories bring you to dream again

Nostalgia, was your second . Nostalgia are memories sweetened by dreams. It was born from romanticised your union even when probelms arised. Is a place to get lost if one is not careful, similar to her parents realms. Nostalgia is memory dreaming of a time that never quite was — at least not like we remember it. Is what tried to hold you together as your union crumbled. She was the most similar to you

Regret, the middle child, is the memory haunted by the dream that didn’t come true. she was born after yours and dream first split, when you thought it would never happen. She was conceived in a moment of desire when you both gave in before you two founded a way back to each others, you regretted what had passed between you, what had led to the separation and that moment of weakness that had resulted in her. But it also which birth brought you back together.

Imagination your fourth, is whay made you hope for a better future, a mix of past and possibility. While memory gives facts to base upon, dream rearranges them. Imagination build your broken kingdoms back to one and made you wonder if you could go back to what you were, if the future was bright. Imagination is where memory and dream meet to sculpt new realities and a new era. She is the most similar to her father

Hallucination, your last, the child born from when memory and dream intertwine and the lines get blurred . The child born from confusion that arose before delirium transformed from delight. Similar to her aunt she is haunted, her touch destroying anyone. A haunted version of both you and dream

Memory frees Dream

'The Sandman' masterlist in the 'other characters Masterlist'

[therealmhs]

Athena's Gift

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Mortal Reader

Part 7: The Professor

PLEASE COMMENT AND ENGAGE. IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME. I LOVE YOUR PREDICTIONS!

The following morning…

Dream’s POV

After having spent the night and morning with you, the Dreaming received him as though it had been holding its breath for his return. The twilight sky shifted with the brush of his presence, clouds curling like ink across parchment. Spires of onyx and glass loomed tall and patient above the palace gates, their reflections bending in the mirror-lake that ringed the grounds.

He stepped through the gates without sound, his coat trailing shadows that coiled across the marble steps. The realm bent with him—flowers turning their heads, doors sighing open—as though eager to listen.

At the base of the stairs, Lucienne was waiting with her ledger hugged close, her posture perfectly composed but her eyes sharp behind her spectacles. Matthew wheeled down from the high rafters of the hall, talons clicking against the banister before he hopped down to a closer perch.

The raven croaked, wings giving a restless flap. “So, uh… how was your date, boss?”

Lucienne’s head snapped up, spectacles flashing. “Matthew. That is not an appropriate question.”

Matthew bobbed his head sheepishly, though his beak still curved with mischief. “What? I was just asking! Y’know, making conversation. He looks… lighter, that’s all.”

Dream’s pale gaze settled on the raven, unblinking. The weight of it made Matthew shift his claws uneasily on the banister.

“My affairs are not for idle speculation.”

Lucienne’s voice came quieter, measured with care. “Then… may I ask, my lord, when you intend to see her again? I must keep the record of your absences for the calendar.”

Dream did not hesitate. “Saturday. I will be gone for five hours. Maybe six.” His tone softened by a fraction, then hardened again as he turned his attention to the raven. “But there is something I require of you in the interim, Matthew.”

The shadows at his feet stirred, restless, as though echoing the gravity of his words. He ascended the marble steps a pace, and the Dreaming seemed to lean toward him, listening.

Matthew tilted his head uneasily. “Boss, that’s your serious voice again. What’s the job?”

Dream’s gaze was steady, absolute. “There is a demon I need you to follow. For a while.”

Matthew flapped both wings in alarm, nearly toppling from the banister. “A demon? You can’t be serious! You want me to spy on one of those freaks? I’m a raven, not a bird on a suicide mission!”

Dream did not blink. “He is young. Reckless. Not yet dangerous. His bluster outpaces his power.”

Matthew’s feathers ruffled from beak to tail. “Not yet dangerous? That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Lucienne’s pen stilled against her ledger, her gaze narrowing. “Then why follow him at all, my lord, if he poses no real threat?”

For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them. The chamber seemed to draw in on itself, the soft rustle of pages in the far-off library halting, the air thick with expectation. Dream’s jaw tightened, his eyes two bottomless wells. When he spoke again, the words fell like iron.

“Because he is not a stranger. He is her former lover. The father of her child.”

Lucienne’s brows rose above the rim of her spectacles. Her voice, though careful, carried the steel of someone piecing together the unspoken. “Her… as in the mortal woman? The one you have… been with?”

Dream’s gaze flickered, not with shame but with the weight of inevitability. Shadows coiled at his feet, rising and falling like waves in a dark tide. “Yes. The fledgling demon is bound to her. Through the past they shared. Through the child she bore him. He believes that gives him claim still.”

Lucienne tilted her head slightly, pen resting against her ledger. “Then would it not be safer, and simpler, to trail her instead? To call upon you if danger draws near her or the child? Or better—allow me to find the reason you cannot see her dreams, nor the child’s. There must be a cause.”

Dream’s eyes darkened, the faintest current of unease threading through the shadows at his shoulders. “Perhaps. Yet no. I would not subject her, nor her daughter, to such constant scrutiny. I find… value in the mystery. In not knowing what she dreams, what she thinks, at every moment. She is entitled to her privacy. Even from me.”

Matthew gave a low whistle, wings ruffling. “Well, that’s new. You, actually letting someone keep their own head. You’re really liking this one, boss.”

Dream’s gaze cut to the raven, sharp as a blade. The silence that followed was heavy enough to still the air, yet at its edges lingered something quieter—an admission unspoken, but undeniable.

Lucienne’s eyes lingered on her lord, calm but searching. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, precise, each word laid like a stone. “Then she does not know, does she? That her former lover—the father of her child—is a demon?”

Dream’s gaze shifted toward the darkened horizon of his realm. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence itself a sentence. Shadows curled higher about him, restless, as though the Dreaming itself recoiled at the memory. At last, his voice came, low as a tolling bell.

“No. She knows only that he was cruel. That he hurt her. He abused what was given freely, and when the time comes, he will answer for it at my hand. Just as his father did, when he sought to claim what was never his.”

The words reverberated through the marble hall, carrying not only judgment but promise.

Lucienne adjusted her spectacles, her expression unreadable. “And you, my lord? Have you told her what you are yet?”

For a breath, the chamber seemed to tighten around them. Dream’s eyes lowered, the weight of eternity pressing behind them. His voice, when it came, was measured stone.

“No. Not yet. She sees me only as I choose to be seen. The truth… will come in time. But it will be on my terms. Not his. Not anyone’s.”

Matthew gave an uneasy croak, feathers fluffing as he shifted on the banister. “Boss, you’re walking a fine line there… mortals don’t usually take kindly to finding out their boyfriend is uhm, not human... Kinda tends to ruin the mood.”

Dream’s gaze slid toward him, pale and unblinking. “It is not… her mood I fear to ruin.”

Matthew fidgeted under the weight of that look. “Right. Got it. Still—if you need someone to break the news gently, I got jokes. Could soften the blow.”

Lucienne cut in sharply, spectacles flashing. “Matthew.”

The raven hunched, muttering. “Alright, alright. Shutting up.”

Your POV

After Morpheus had left, you pulled yourself together—clothes, bag, the kind of routine that made you feel rushed, in a world with schedules and lectures. By the time you made it to campus, the cafeteria was already buzzing.

The air smelled of burnt espresso and fried bread, chatter rolling like a low tide against the clatter of trays.

You spotted her instantly—Anna, tucked in the corner near the window with a scarf looped loosely around her throat, fingers wrapped around a too-hot paper cup.

She looked pale still, but when she saw you she lit up, and for a moment you remembered why she’d always been your anchor. Anna had been your best friend since first year—steady, sharp-witted, the kind of person you could unravel with and know she’d never let the threads tangle too far.

“Hey, stranger,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite. “It feels like forever. How are you?”

“Better. Just been sick. Missed the last two of Grant’s lectures.” She rolled her eyes at the professor’s name.

“Honestly, you didn’t miss much,” you said. “His voice could make the Iliad sound like a tax return. But… I was kind of glad you weren’t there for the first one.”

Anna leaned forward, frowning. “Why were you glad I wasn’t there?”

You traced a finger around the rim of your coffee cup, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Because… there was a guy. He sat down next to me. Never seen him before.”

Her eyes sharpened, voice instantly conspiratorial. “A guy? Like… a guy you like?”

You swallowed, hesitant. “We… hooked up a few times.”

Anna’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean you hooked up a few times? You don’t just hook up. Not you. You’ve never been that girl.”

You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “I know. It’s just—” You struggled to find words, a warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t casual, even though it sounds like it. With him, it’s… different.”

Her brow furrowed, suspicion mixing with curiosity. “Different how?”

You glanced down at your cup, then back up at her. “We don’t do the usual small talk. It’s deeper. About stories, dreams, the way people are and their ideals. We talk about Shakespeare and the universe. He makes me think. It feels… refreshing. Like breathing properly for the first time in ages.”

Anna gave a disbelieving huff. “He sounds like a nerd.”

You burst out laughing, the sound a little too loud for the quiet corner you sat in, drawing a quick grin from her. “Maybe,” you admitted, still smiling.

Anna leaned forward, eyes glittering with mischief. “So what’s his name, then?”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek before answering. Finally, you said it quietly, almost testing the sound aloud again. “Morpheus. He said his name was Morpheus. Which is ridiculous, right? I’m still half-convinced he was joking, because the lecture we met in was literally about the god of dreams.”

Anna nearly choked on her coffee before dissolving into laughter. “Oh my god. That is peak weirdo energy. He actually said that?”

You nodded, trying not to grin too hard. “Swear on my life.”

She shook her head, still laughing, but then her expression softened as she studied you. “Thing is… as stupid as that sounds, I don’t know why—it weirdly suits him. And I mean, it really suits him a lot!”

You felt heat creep into your cheeks, remembering the quiet gravity of his voice, the way he looked at you as if seeing straight through to the bone.

Anna tilted her head, curiosity flickering. “So what else? What does he do? How old is he?”

You sighed, lifting your cup. “That’s just it—I don’t know those things. He’s… elusive. But when we talk, none of those matters. It’s like the world narrows down to only what he’s saying.”

Anna leaned closer, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Alright, fine, mystery man with a mystery life. But you said you hooked up a few times, so…” She raised her brows expectantly. “How’s the sex?”

Your laugh came out too quickly, too high. “Anna!”

She only grinned wider. “Don’t you dare clam up on me now. Spill. Is it as strange and intense as the rest of him?”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a losing battle with the smile threatening to spread. “It’s… different!”

Anna narrowed her eyes, leaning in like a detective smelling blood. “Different how?”

Heat rose all the way to your ears. You lowered your voice, glancing around the café even though no one was listening. “It’s the best I’ve ever had. Like… he knows my body better than I do. Every touch feels deliberate, like he already knows what I’ll want before I do.”

Anna’s jaw dropped, then she let out a scandalized laugh. “Oh my god.”

You buried your face in your hands for a moment before peeking at her, still grinning helplessly. “And it goes for hours. Hours, Anna.”

Anna slammed her cup down, eyes wide. “No bloke goes for hours. Not without, like, pharmaceutical help. You’re lying.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m not! I swear, it’s like he doesn’t get tired. Like time doesn’t exist for him. I don’t even know if he even sleeps.”

Her mouth fell open again before she broke into another laugh. “Okay, now you’re making him sound like an alien. Or a god. Or both.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, softer this time. “Maybe.”

Before Anna could press you further, the bell rang across campus, echoing through the halls. You both groaned, finishing your coffees and slinging bags over your shoulders. The warm, conspiratorial bubble of the cafeteria gave way to the colder, echoing corridors of the humanities building.

When you reached the lecture theatre, the place was already packed. Students filled most of the back rows—your usual safe spot—leaving only a scatter of seats closer to the front. You and Anna exchanged a grimace before sliding into two chairs in the second row. The proximity felt almost indecent, every scrape of your chair against the floor echoing too loud.

Professor Ellery Grant was already at the lectern, hunched over his notes like a vulture over carrion. When he lifted his head, his watery eyes swept the room with a cold precision, and for a moment they caught on you. Then Anna. He lingered. It wasn’t a glance, not the way most lecturers skimmed the room—it was sharper, deliberate, as if committing your faces to memory.

Anna shifted uncomfortably, leaning in close. “Ugh. Usually we sit at the back. Why is this room so small?”

You shrugged, trying not to fidget under his stare. “Bad luck.”

Grant cleared his throat, the sound rasping through the speakers. “Today,” he began, voice sandpapery, “we continue our exploration of mythic archetypes. Gods, and the fragile delusions of mortals…”

Anna snorted quietly, nudging your elbow. “And to think you’re probably shagging one.”

“Sssh,” you said as heat rushed up your neck, and you ducked your head, suddenly very interested in the blank page of your notebook.

Grant’s gaze swept across the room, hawk-like, before it landed on you. His lips thinned into something almost like a smile. “You,” he said, the word sharp enough to cut. “Yes, you. You were at the back during my first mythology lecture, weren’t you? Whispering away with that smart-aleck instead of listening.” A dry chuckle scraped his throat. “Perhaps you can do us all the courtesy of recapping the key point from that lecture on Morpheus. Since it ties rather neatly into today’s theme.”

Every head in the second row turned your way. Anna’s eyebrows shot up, her hand creeping toward her mouth to stifle a grin.

Every head in the second row turned your way. Anna’s eyebrows shot up, her hand creeping toward her mouth to stifle a grin.

Your stomach tightened, but you forced yourself to answer. “Morpheus shows up in Ovid’s Metamorphoses as the god of dreams, the one who can take human form and bring messages through visions. That’s what’s written, anyway.” You paused, fingers tightening on your pen. Then, steadier: “But I don’t think it’s that simple. Ovid called him a myth, but people didn’t just invent gods out of thin air. They gave names to things they couldn’t control, which includes dreams.”

A few students shifted in their seats, surprised at the weight of your words.

Professor Grant tilted his head, eyes narrowing on you like a hawk sighting prey. “So, you think Ovid is wrong?” His tone was laced with mockery, the question balanced between challenge and trap.

Anna shot you a sidelong look, her brows rising in silent warning.

Your pulse hammered, but the word came out before you could stop it. “Maybe.”

The room went still. A few students turned in their seats to look at you. You drew a breath and pressed on, steadier now. “Ovid wrote what people wanted to hear—that dreams were only stories, that gods were just symbols. But there’s no proof they were only symbols. No proof they weren’t more than that. People don’t make gods out of things that don’t matter. They gave names to storms, to death, to love—and to dreams—because those things were too powerful, too frightening, too important to explain away.”

A murmur stirred through the room, a few pens pausing mid-scribble.

Professor Grant’s expression tightened, his thin smile brittle. “So you would elevate superstition to truth? You would side with fantasy over literature?”

Anna nudged you under the desk, her wide-eyed grin trying (and failing) to be discreet. “You’re killing him,” she whispered.

You straightened your shoulders, heat still crawling up your neck. “I’m just saying Ovid might not have had the last word on it.”

For a long moment, Grant held your gaze. Then he gave a sharp little sniff, snapping his notes straight again. “We’ll leave it there,” he said curtly, before turning back to the board. His voice droned on about Poseidon and Hera, but you could feel his attention flicker back toward you more than once, like a thread pulled taut.

When the hour finally wound down, students rose in a clatter of bags and scraping chairs, the room filling with chatter. You gathered your things quickly, ready to slip out with Anna.

“Miss…” Grant’s voice cut through the noise, dry as sandpaper. His eyes found you again, sharp and unblinking. “Stay behind a moment. I’d like a word in private.”

Anna froze beside you, her brows flying up. She leaned close, muttering, “Do you want me to wait?”

You shook your head.

The room emptied in a noisy shuffle of bags and footsteps until only you and Professor Grant remained. Anna hovered by the door, frowning, her bag slung over one shoulder.

“I’ll wait outside,” she said quietly, giving you a pointed look before slipping out into the hall.

The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was heavier than it should have been. Grant stacked his notes with precision before looking up. His smile was thin, deliberate.

“You’re spirited,” he said, voice softer now, almost approving. “Most students wouldn’t dare contradict me in front of a room. They barely dare to speak at all.”

You shifted your notebook against your chest. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“No,” he cut in, stepping down from the lectern. His shoes tapped softly as he crossed the floor toward you. “You were right to. Literature dies if it isn’t challenged. Ovid, Homer… all of them. They survive because voices like yours refuse to accept them without question.”

He stopped close—too close—and before you could step back, his hand brushed over yours where it rested on the desk. His skin was dry, papery, lingering far longer than polite.

“You have an instinct,” he murmured. “One worth cultivating. You should come by my office sometime. I’d like to hear more of your… perspectives.”

Your stomach lurched, the air suddenly colder. You pulled your hand back quickly, mumbling, “Maybe.”

His smile only sharpened. “Good. Don’t waste your talent.”

The door creaked open a crack, Anna’s head poking in. “Ready?” she asked, her tone firm, protective.

You nodded, almost stumbling in your rush to leave. Grant’s eyes followed you as you slipped out the door, the weight of his stare clinging long after you were gone.

The door swung shut behind you, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Anna immediately hooked her arm through yours, tugging you down the hall.

“Absolute creep,” she muttered, her eyes darting back toward the lecture theatre.

“Yes, he is,” you agreed, the words coming out tight. You rubbed your palm against your jeans as if to shake off the memory of his touch.

Anna’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t let him corner you again. The way he stares—it’s not academic, it’s predatory.”

You nodded quickly, eager to move on. “I won’t. Honestly, I’ve got more important things to think about.”

Her expression softened. “Like what?”

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Like picking up Ophelia from her dad’s and getting her to Storytime at the library before she stages a revolt.”

Anna laughed, the sound breaking the tension. “Right. Your tiny tyrant. Priorities.”

You smiled, the weight of the encounter already easing a little. “Exactly.”

***

By the time you left campus, the afternoon clouds had deepened into a dull grey, the air thick with the promise of rain. You braced yourself as you reached Damian’s front door, already feeling the familiar heaviness settle in your stomach.

He opened it before you could knock twice. His face was carved with anger and disappointment, eyes narrowing as they landed on you.

“Is Ophelia ready?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“She’s upstairs,” Damian said, his tone clipped. Then, after a pause: “Can we talk first?”

You shook your head, shifting your weight. “No. I’m here for her, nothing else.”

His jaw tightened, but he pressed on anyway. “I don’t like you seeing that man again.”

The words hung between you, sharp as glass. Rain began tapping faintly against the porch roof, the silence stretched taut—

—and then broke as footsteps approached from behind Damian. His mother appeared in the hallway, one hand on Ophelia’s shoulder as she guided her down the last few stairs.

“Good to see you,” she said warmly, her eyes flicking past her son as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Ophelia’s been waiting with her book bag. Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

Ophelia beamed and wriggled free, running straight toward you. Damian’s mother leaned down, kissing the top of her granddaughter’s head before straightening again, her gaze sliding pointedly to her son.

“Go on,” she said to you, her voice firm, final. “Don’t let the rain catch you.”

It was a dismissal. A deliberate shutting-off. Damian’s jaw worked, but he said nothing as his mother turned briskly back into the house, leaving him standing in the doorway with the storm gathering behind his eyes.

Questions for the readers – What are your predictions:

How will the reader find out who Morpheus is and what will she think of it?

How will Morpheus take to the professor?

What about Damien the demon?

Oh, and what about Hob? Evemtually he will find out, right?

@crispyduckpirate @stranger-chan @hiraethmae

@friendstolobsters @queenofstresss @iamempty13

@marsmallow433 @eveiiiscorner @villain-in-the-dark @boywivlove @anatheladybug

@new-author3 @drunkennunicornn

@sandmanmasterlistblog @phythius @miarabanana @ladyofhisrelam @gemtales @peterpangirl21 @zafirina12 @li22ie2017 @slimearchon @dreams-a-little-dream @sriasavet @peterpangirl21 @ifnotredthenwhite @hopingtocleaemedschool @arya-woodland @sighingforalongtime @radioactivewatson @bubblegumflamingos @chugjugg @eriseffigy

[therealmhs]

Until the moment comes.

Love Does not wait. (Part 1)

Pairing :- Dream of the endless (Daniel) x goddess!reader

Synopsis :- Well, here you were, the goddess of love, the one every mortal dreamt of experiencing truly once in their lifetime. Ironic isn’t it? That the goddess of love never truly got to know the true meaning of it herself? Also, you may now never be able to, as the news of the death of Dream echoed in the halls of your realm.

Warnings:- little angst, calliope isn’t liked much here, not complete slander but..yeah.

For centuries you have been ruling the Court of Love, settling disputes, granting boons, listening to mortals and immortals alike as they brought their broken hearts to your feet. It was what your aunt had done for millennia, what you had been groomed for.

and yet, even with eternity now at your command, exhaustion seeped into your bones. Because love, though eternal, is never light to bear.

Then one day, the swan flew in.

Luella, your companion, glided into your hall with a letter in her beak, its seal unmistakably that of the Dreaming. Hope flickered, foolish and fierce, you had not heard from him in so long. Morpheus. The Dream King. The one you had once loved, the one you had lost.

Your eyes landed on everyone in the court and one single glance at the Cupid beside you, and he ordered that the Goddess is no longer available.

Your gown flowed like water as you glided down the staircase towards your chamber, heart beating unnaturally and palms sweaty as if you were one of those adolescent girls experiencing love for the very first time.

But when the wax was broken, the words carved into parchment were not what you craved. They carried only grief. The Lord of Dreams was dead. Lucienne’s hand had written it, her plea gentle but firm: do not come. She only wished to inform you.

The skies above your realm darkened instantly, clouds roiling, rain threatening to fall as your emotions bled into the land you ruled. Love turned heavy, twisted by grief, regret, and guilt. For you knew why. You had always known why.

Dream’s doom had not come at random, it was the consequence of choices, of defiance, of tragedy centuries in the making. It had begun when he refused his son’s request to visit your father, to ask for the soul of his son’s wife.

when Orpheus, desperate and young, had tried to do what Dream would not. Eurydice slipped through his fingers when he had chose to just glance behind his back, just to be sure she was there, your father’s bargain broken, and from that one fracture the dominoes of fate began to fall.

You wore what you always had, just that now it was in the shade of black your grief was painted in. The rose crown on your head bled black as well. Lucienne and Matthew stood side by side as they watched the current embodiment of the most peculiar emotion of them all, Love.

Ascending gracefully on the steps of the palace of dreaming, the last time she was here, it was to see if the keys of hell were in right hands.

“Your majesty.” Lucienne spoke softly, but her face betrayed what she truly felt; fear. “Lucienne, a pleasure meeting you again, thought we both know the circumstances of it are not too well.”

“I believe I had made a plea..for you to not come.” You then tilted your head with a smile “and I rejected that plea, is there anything you can do to stop me?”

“Maybe the fact that mother of Orpheus, the man your father was the reason lost his love, is sitting inside as well.” You clenched your fingers but then slowly took a deep breath.

“Eurydice’s dying was not something done by my father, or me. In fact my parents had given him a chance, but his uncertainty on him, his faith on the god of the underworld and his impatience is what brought his doom, so if the ‘dear’ mother of that poor unfortunate soul has no rational thinking to know that, then I believe she must’ve dropped her head as a child.”

“,also, what can a simple muse do to me?”

“She is a mother, Your majesty, a mother’s grief towards their child is a strong emotion.”

This made you chuckle, but it was an empty one. “You’re telling me that Lucienne? Have you forgotten who my family is? My grandmother freezes the world during the time my mother isn’t next to her, and since I was born, she wishes me to be there as well, much to father’s ’enjoyment’.”

“I still cannot let you in your majesty.” You stared in the unwavering eyes of Lucienne, the ever loyal servant to Morpheus and sighed, deciding to sit on the steps. “Alright, if that’s what you wish for, I won’t be a nuisance anymore to you, oh the great caretaker.”

Lucienne kept staring at your back until she felt satisfied by your statement and left to go back inside at the memorial.

“Guess it’s truly not in the fate of mine to see you even one last time huh?” You muttered to the open sky of dreaming, which today looked gloomy, an emotion it shared with many people present here today.

You were fiddling with your fingers when you felt a tap at your wrist, making you turn your head to the side to see..a raven?

“Can I help you” the raven was holding a letter in his mouth, he placed it down and cleared its throat. “Uh. Hi! My name is Matthew, I was uh..I was Morpheus’ raven for quite some while.”

You smiled and nodded your head a little. “Pleasure to meet you Matthew, you can call me Love.” Matthew then said “I uh..I actually have to go inside as well but I have this letter, Boss had given this to me, said he wanted me to give it to you.”

This made you surprised, but your hand slowly took the letter from Matthew and watched him fly back inside, the doors of the palace finally closing. I am not needed here. You thought as you got up, ready to leave this place.

Finally you were back in your chambers, the soft glow of your realm’s sun shining through the curtains making everything feel ethereal and blurry.

You sat down on your bed and with trembling hands, took the letter opener and tore the envelope and pulled out the letter and opened it to read,

To the one I could never name,

If these words have reached you, then I am no longer among the living, and my silence can wound you no longer. Jesamy Matthew will have carried this to your hand, and so my final truth rests with you alone.

I have loved you. Long before I would permit myself to speak it, long after I convinced myself it could not be so. I denied it, for I thought myself unworthy. I told myself you sought something grander, brighter, more complete than I could offer. And so I gave you nothing, believing nothing would hurt you less than the paltry fragments of my heart.

I was wrong.

It was only in the loss of my son that the truth revealed itself with cruel clarity. I saw all the choices I had made, the love I had squandered, the time I had allowed to slip through my hands like sand. I understood then that you never sought a love shaped in another’s likeness. You asked only for mine, unvarnished and unfeigned. And I, fearing it would not suffice, withheld it.

Thus I was the most wretched of men, fortunate, for I was loved by you, wholly and without demand. Unfortunate, for I never allowed myself the grace of claiming you as mine.

If there is another place, another shore beyond this one, then let it be where we are not divided by silence or by fear. Let it be where I may stand beside you, and not turn away.

Until that moment, if such a moment comes, know this: though I could not speak it in life, it was always you.

Ever and only yours,

Dream of the Endless

Drops of tears fell one after another, staining the old paper letter. You bit your lip to silence the whimper but alas it was of no use. Your knees gave out and you fell to the floor as you clutched the letter to your heart.

Why had the most painful experience of love, where you loose the one you loved the most, was handed to you? The goddess of love itself.

Luella flew in, concern filling her as she heard your cries. “Your Grace? Are you alright? Should I call for the healer?” The poor swan had no idea how to console her Mistress who was still clutching onto the piece of paper in her hand.

Luella finally decided to not question anything and just hold her with her big wings and let her cry it out.

Lucienne was in her study, going through some books, when Dream, the white cladded New Dream of the endless walked towards her, uncertainty clouding his eyes.

“Lucienne, I had the most peculiar dream memory of all today.” Which made the woman removed her glasses and looked at her Lord. “What was it my lord?”

“I..I saw this woman, her eyes held pain which was so deep that it seeped in my heart as well. Her beauty unmatched to anything I have ever seen, well I haven’t seen much but still.”

Lucienne sighed, knowing that this day would come since his memories have been placed in him. “That My lord? Was the goddess of Love, the one you loved but lost due to death.”

“D-Death? Death as in my sister?”

“No my lord, death as your literal death.”

Dream took a deep breath, fiddling with his green necklace when he looked up at Lucienne with a determined look. “I must visit her, she needs to know I am back.”

“But lord, the man she loved was Morpheus.”

This made him stop on his steps and then back, “it is me, I have all my memories, I cannot lose her again Lucienne.” He doesn’t know where this overwhelming feeling of loss and pain was gnawing at his heart but he knew it would only stop once he reunites with the one he always wanted.

Dream walked the warm and sunny realm of the love, different than what his home was like, he saw heart shaped flowers, swans flying around, men and women with white wings as well, holding bows and arrows.

The palace looked beautiful, it was covered by water falls and glimpses of its red walls visible. He walked to the gates of the palace but was stopped by the guards.

“I am dream of the endless, I must meet your queen.”

“No entires allowed in such matters, currently her grace is tending to her court.”

“You are not understanding I have to meet your goddess!”

The guards weren’t obliging so he did what he thought would be best, he blew sand on their faces, and walked in as they fell asleep.

Dream ran through the halls of love and finally reached the beautiful courtroom, when his breath hitched as his eyes went to his love, after all these years.

You stared at the strange but familiar figure as long as you could, Morpheus’ words echoing in your brain. ‘If there is another place, another shore beyond this one, then let it be where we are not divided by silence or by fear. Let it be where I may stand beside you, and not turn away.’

You slowly stood up from your throne and walked down the stairs as the man was held by many guards. Your hand slowly went to his face and traced it, that is when you gasped as the familiar feeling came over you.

“Dream?” He smiled and looked up at you as the guards still had him pinned down. He then said, “didn’t I tell you will cross paths again?”

You let out a cry of relief and quickly told everyone that the court is over now, everyone left the room as you and dream kept staring at each other.

Finally, as you were alone, you fell on your knees and held his face in your hands as he did the same with your face and you both finally kissed, all the years of pinning, of heartbreak, of jealousy,

Dream and the goddess of love were together.

[therealmhs]

Athena's Gift

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Mortal Reader

Part 6: Intimate Moments (Smut)

PLEASE COMMENT AND ENGAGE. IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME. I LOVE YOUR PREDICTIONS!

(P.s. I will be updating Just A Dream as well, today or tomorrow)!

Moments later…

You walked inside together, the door shutting with a soft click behind you. He neither lingered nor looked around, but slipped his coat from his shoulders in one fluid motion, folding it carefully over the back of a chair. His boots followed—placed side by side with quiet precision near the door.

He had remembered the rules.

The simple act made your chest twist. “You remembered.”

His pale gaze lifted to yours, steady, unreadable. “Of course.”

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud the hush of your apartment felt with him standing there.

Your fingers fidgeted at your sides. “So, um… wine? I could open a bottle—”

He regarded you without moving, his voice low and measured. “No. I have no thirst. Your company will suffice.”

The words stilled you, sending your heart tripping unevenly. You gave a shaky laugh, nodding too quickly. “Okay.”

You took a step toward him, then another, nerves sparking with every inch of space you closed. He didn’t shift, didn’t falter, only watched you approach as if waiting to see what you would do.

When your hand finally rose, trembling a little, and brushed his jaw, he did not draw back. Cool skin met your fingertips, impossibly smooth, impossibly still.

And then, breathless, you kissed him.

Your hand rose, trembling slightly, brushing along the sharp line of his jaw. Cool, impossibly smooth beneath your touch. For a heartbeat you faltered—then you leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft at first, testing, but when his lips pressed back—slow, certain—the tension in you unwound with a rush. You leaned into him, kissing him again, firmer this time, your hand sliding higher to rest against his cheek.

When you finally drew back for air, your voice broke into the hush between you. “Will you… will you spend the night again?”

His gaze held yours, endless, unflinching. “If it is your wish, then yes.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching. “I do.”

You kissed him again before the words had even settled, more insistent this time, need bleeding through your nerves. His lips were cool, steady, but when they moved against yours it was with a quiet certainty, as though answering something he had known would come.

You pressed closer, your hands slipping up into his hair, tugging him down to you. His hand slid from your back to your waist, anchoring you firmly in place. The kiss deepened, sweet turning urgent, each brush of his mouth against yours unraveling another knot inside you.

A soft sound escaped you, half-sigh, half-laugh. “God… I’ve been wanting this all evening.”

He drew back just enough to meet your gaze, pale eyes sharp and endless, his voice brushing across your lips like a vow. “As have I.”

Then his mouth claimed yours again, firmer, surer, and the restraint you had always felt coiled beneath his stillness began to slip. His fingers tightened at your waist, sliding to the curve of your hip, pulling you closer until you could feel the solid line of him against you.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands clutching at his coat, dragging him down until there was no space left between you. His lips moved against yours with quiet hunger, deliberate and deep, as though he meant to consume every unspoken thought you had carried all evening.

When his hand left your waist, it rose slowly, deliberately, tracing the length of your arm before cupping the side of your face. The cool weight of his palm steadied you, but the kiss grew hotter, hungrier, until your breath hitched against his mouth.

You broke away only long enough to whisper, voice shaking, “Don’t stop.”

His forehead rested against yours, his words low, certain. “I will not… unless you wish it.”

Your answer was another kiss, fiercer, needier, your body pressing to his, heart racing as if it might break through your ribs. His hand slid lower against your back, pulling you flush to him, and you felt the restrained strength in the way he held you—as if he was giving in and holding back all at once.

When your lips parted on a breathless gasp, his voice slipped in, low and steady. “Tell me what you desire of me.”

“You,” you whispered, your fingers clutching at him. “Just you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand tracing the line of your spine before coming to the hem of your shirt. The brush of his fingers against your skin made your breath falter, and when he began to lift the fabric, slow and deliberate, he broke the kiss just enough to look into your eyes.

“Yes?” he asked softly, the word heavy with meaning.

Your throat tightened, but you nodded, pulling at the shirt yourself, desperate to feel his hands on you without barriers. Together you dragged it over your head, and the cool air rushed over your skin just before his touch followed.

His palms, impossibly cool and steady, slid across your sides, tracing you as though committing every inch to memory. The reverence in his gaze was unmistakable—no hunger without control, no haste without intention. When his mouth found your collarbone, pressing slow, lingering kisses there, you shivered under him, your hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

You tugged at it, breathless. “Please…”

He stilled, then obliged, drawing the garment over his shoulders in a single, fluid motion. His body was pale and lithe in the low lamplight, shadows clinging to every sharp angle as if the darkness itself obeyed him. He pressed back into you, lips seeking yours again, and began working at the fastening of your jeans, careful, unhurried.

You broke the kiss to laugh nervously, your voice shaking with equal parts want and disbelief.

You broke the kiss to laugh nervously, your voice shaking with equal parts want and disbelief. “We’re… we’re not even making it to the bedroom, are we?”

His lips curved the faintest fraction against your throat. “If this is where you wish to be, then here is where I will have you.”

The words sank into you like a tremor, deep and unshakable. A shiver ran down your spine, heat pooling in your chest, your stomach, lower still. God—how could something so simple, spoken in that voice, be so unbearably sexy?

“Yes, right here,” you whispered, pulse hammering as his hands slipped lower, easing fabric away, undressing you right there in the quiet of your living room. Each movement was deliberate, reverent—as though every inch revealed was something sacred.

When the last barrier fell, his pale eyes swept over you, and for a long moment he simply looked. Not with lust alone, but with awe, as if he were memorizing you with every unblinking second. His hand rose, cool and careful, tracing from your collarbone down your sternum, then back to your waist, the caress so slow it made you ache.

He kissed you again, firmer, deeper, his mouth moving against yours with an intensity that stole your breath. His hands framed your face as if you were fragile glass, but the kiss itself was consuming, your lips parting under his as his tongue traced yours in languid, deliberate strokes.

When you gasped, he followed the sound, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down your throat. He kissed there too, slow, almost worshipful, the heat of your pulse beating against his lips. His hands mapped your body as though every curve, every tremor was sacred scripture.

You clung to him, dizzy, whispering against his hair, “I want you to take me. Don’t hold back.”

His mouth stilled at your throat. Slowly, he lifted his head, and his eyes burned into yours, pale and endless. His voice came low, reverent, devastating. “I will give you what you ask. All of me. All that I am.”

Then his lips claimed yours again—harder this time, insistent, devouring. He kissed you until your knees weakened, until your breath hitched in ragged gasps, and still he didn’t let go. His hands framed your face, cradling you as though you were fragile glass, even as his mouth demanded more.

When you broke for air, his lips traced down the line of your jaw, to your throat, finding the quick hammer of your pulse. He kissed there slowly, reverently, as though each press of his lips marked you his. The cool brush of his mouth made your skin burn hotter, each kiss leaving you trembling.

His hands slid lower, caressing your ribs, your waist, then circling your hips. He dropped to his knees before you, the sight of him there—tall, composed, always so still—now kneeling at your feet, made your breath falter. His lips pressed to your stomach, soft, lingering, before trailing lower.

Every kiss was deliberate, worshipping. He mapped you inch by inch, tasting, revering, as if you were something sacred that had finally been placed in his care. When his mouth closed over you, the shock of it pulled a broken sound from your throat.

His hands steadied you, guiding your body as though you were something both fragile and essential. With quiet precision, he shifted, one hand sliding beneath your thigh to lift and settle your leg over his shoulder. The movement pressed you back against the wall, anchoring you there, while opening you fully to him.

The change stole your breath. Every brush of his mouth became sharper, deeper, pulling sounds from you you hadn’t known you could make. His grip on you was unyielding but never cruel—holding you as though he would not allow the world itself to intervene.

His tongue moved with devastating precision, slow at first, then purposeful, unrelenting. Each flick, each press, felt as though it had been chosen with infinite care. He was not merely taking pleasure from you—he was drawing it out, building it, until your body shook with the force of it.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, desperate for something to hold onto. Your back arched against the wall as heat coiled tighter and tighter inside you, each sound he pulled from your lips rising higher, sharper.

The rhythm of him was merciless and yet worshipful, as though every cry you gave was not only heard but cherished. It was unbearable, and it was everything.

Your voice broke on his name, gasping, pleading. “Please—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. He answered your plea with more, each deliberate flick and press of his tongue undoing you piece by piece, until the rhythm of him was all that existed. His hands gripped you firmly, holding you steady as though you might otherwise shatter apart beneath him.

Your cries broke into the air, raw, helpless, swallowed by the reverence in his touch. And then—like a dam giving way—you broke. The pleasure surged through you in waves, wracking, overwhelming, stealing every last breath. You sobbed his name into the stillness as your body trembled, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the world.

Still, he didn’t let go. He carried you through it, steady, relentless, worshipful, until the last shudder eased from your body and you collapsed back against the wall, boneless, breathless, undone.

When he finally lifted his head, his pale eyes caught yours. His lips glistened faintly in the dim light, but his gaze was calm, steady—possessive in a way that made you tremble all over again.

He rose and claimed your mouth with his, and you gasped at the taste of yourself on his lips. The kiss was deep, consuming, his tongue teasing yours until you moaned into him. Your hands, trembling, slid down over the sharp planes of his chest—bare, cool, impossibly smooth. At some point he had shrugged his shirt away, and now there was nothing between you but skin and heat.

You fumbled at his belt, the buckle clinking as you tugged it free, and he didn’t stop you. He only kissed you harder, his mouth devouring yours while his hands roamed your body—your waist, your hips, the curve of your thigh. When you freed the fastening, he pushed his trousers down just enough, the fabric falling low on his hips, pale skin stark against the shadows.

Then he pressed into you, hard and undeniable, making you gasp against his mouth. One hand slipped beneath your thigh again, lifting, hooking your leg around him, pinning you between his body and the wall.

His forehead rested briefly against yours, his voice low, resonant, devastating. “You asked me not to hold back.”

“Don’t,” you whispered, breathless, trembling. “Please… don’t.”  His mouth slanted over yours, a harsh invasion, claiming and consuming. He kissed you as though he wanted to devour you whole, his body pressing you against the wall, pinning you in place. You felt every hard line of him, the heat and the strength, the unyielding power that would never let you go.

He lined himself up, teasing you with the head of his length, and you gasped, your fingers clenching in his hair.

"Please," you whimpered, your voice thick with need. "I need you inside of me." 

He groaned, low and dark, and you felt the rasp of his breath against your skin, the tremble that ran through him like a pent-up storm waiting to break.

And then he pushed into you, slow and deliberate, filling you inch by agonizing inch.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you strained to take him all in. He was so deep, so hard, every inch of him stretching you, consuming you.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut, your head falling back against the wall.

He groaned, low and deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your lips. “Look at me,” he demanded, his voice thick with hunger. You forced your eyes open, meeting his—pale and endless, his eyes burning into yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

“Tell me what you feel,” he commanded, his voice rough, ragged.

“You’re so fucking deep,” you gasped, your fingers still clenched in his hair, your nails biting into the flesh of his shoulders. “I can feel you everywhere.”

He groaned again, his hips flexing, pulling back just enough to thrust harder, deeper. “Was that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” you hissed, your head falling back against the wall again.

“God, yes. Please.”

The words seemed to unleash something in him. He began to move, slow and deliberate at first, his eyes never leaving yours as he pulled back and thrust deeper, each stroke measured, consuming. You could feel every inch of him, the stretch and the burn, the relentless rhythm that was driving you wild.

He was not gentle , not this time. He was claiming you, possessing you, his body moving with a fierce intensity that matched the hunger in his eyes.

“I want to hear you,” he growled, voice low and thick with desire. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

His hand slid to your hip, holding you steady as he thrust deeper, harder, his other hand cupping your breast, fingers rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You gasped, arching into his touch, your body writhing against the wall, pressed so tightly to him that you felt his heartbeat, his breath, his very existence.

His fingers tightened around your hip, his grip almost bruising as he thrust harder, deeper, his hips slamming into yours with a force that was both brutal and beautiful.

"Yes," you cried out, the word torn from your throat on a shudder of pleasure. "God, yes. Right there—don't stop."

He groaned, a low, primal sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "You feel so good," he growled, his voice rough with need. 

His hand left your hip, sliding up to tangle in your hair, fisting it tightly.

The slight sting made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pulled your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth descended on the sensitive skin there, teeth grazing, tongue laving. You felt the bite of his teeth, the hot, wet slide of his tongue, and a moan ripped from your throat.

“Fuck,” you choked out, your body trembling with the force of it. “Oh my god, fuck.”

He growled against your flesh, the sound vibrating through you, making your stomach clench with anticipation.

"You're mine," he said, his voice low and possessive. "All mine."

His hand tightened in your hair, pulling your head back further, exposing more of your throat to his mouth. He kissed, licked, nipped, his tongue and teeth working in tandem to drive you wild. You arched against him, your hips moving instinctively, seeking more of him, needing him deeper.

"Please," you begged, the word coming out as a whimper. "Please, I need more."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own burning with an intensity that made your heart race. His breath came ragged, his body pressed hard to yours, every line of him unyielding.

For a moment he held there, as if memorizing you—your trembling lips, your flushed skin, the way you clung to him. Then, with a low groan, he shifted. His hands gripped your hips firmly, turning you with deliberate force until your palms braced against the wall.

A startled gasp escaped you, your cheek brushing the cool plaster, your body bent slightly forward. He pressed into your back, his bare chest cool against the heat of your skin, his mouth finding the curve of your shoulder. His teeth grazed you there, biting gently, before his tongue soothed the mark.

One hand slid around to your front, splaying across your stomach, holding you in place as he thrust back into you from behind. The new angle made you cry out, your fingers curling against the wall for balance. He groaned at the sound, low and guttural, his movements sharp and consuming.

“You feel… extraordinary,” he breathed against your ear, each word rough with hunger. “Every part of you.”

Your body clenched around him, the sensation unbearable, exquisite. You pushed back against him instinctively, meeting every stroke, gasping his name between broken cries. His hand slid higher, cupping your breast again, his fingers rolling your nipple until you moaned helplessly, your body arching beneath his touch.

The rhythm he set was devastating, relentless, each thrust stealing another breath, another sound from you. The air was thick with your cries, his groans, the slap of skin against skin—raw, primal, unstoppable.

Then his hand left your breast, sliding lower with merciless precision. His fingers found the swollen heat of your clit, circling, pressing, stroking in time with his thrusts. The sudden shock of pleasure ripped a cry from your throat, your knees nearly buckling under the weight of it.

“Yes—oh god—”

The sensation was unbearable, exquisite. His body drove into you from behind, filling you deeper with every thrust, while his fingers worked you ruthlessly, expertly, as though he knew exactly how to unravel you.

The pressure built too fast, too sharp—you couldn’t hold it back. Your hands slapped against the wall for balance, your forehead pressed hard to the plaster as your body trembled and arched against him.

“I can’t—” you sobbed, the words breaking. “I can’t hold it—”

His mouth brushed your ear, his voice low and ragged. “Then don’t.”

That command shattered you. The climax tore through you like lightning, white-hot and consuming, dragging a cry from your lips so raw it echoed off the walls. Your body clenched tight around him, pulsing, waves of ecstasy ripping through you as he held you pinned in place, thrusting harder, deeper, carrying you through it.

You shook violently in his arms, boneless, undone, but he did not relent. His fingers pressed harder, his body still thrusting into you, dragging every last aftershock from your trembling frame until you could barely stand, your forehead pressed hard against the wall for balance.

Your cries were still spilling from you when his rhythm faltered, deep and ragged. His breath rasped against your ear, uneven now, harsh as if torn from him. His grip on your hip tightened almost painfully as his control frayed.

“You—” his voice broke into a groan, guttural and raw. “You undo me.”

The words came moments before he thrust deep, burying himself inside you with a force that stole your breath. His groan tore through the stillness, low and primal, his body shuddering as he finally surrendered to the pull of you.

You felt it—every tremor, every surge—as he released, his chest pressed hard to your back, his mouth open against your shoulder, dragging in desperate, broken breaths. His hand still held you firm at the hip, anchoring you against the wall as though even now he would not let you go.

The world narrowed to the sound of him—his groans, his ragged breathing, the shudder of his body as he spent himself inside you. The force of it sent another wave spiraling through your already-overwhelmed nerves, your body clenching around him in echo of his release.

When at last the tremors eased, he stayed pressed to you, chest heaving, his face buried in the curve of your neck. His breath was still ragged, uneven, brushing hot against your damp skin. One hand smoothed slowly over your stomach, anchoring you as though he feared you might slip away if he let go.

You sagged against the wall, boneless, still trembling. Your legs wouldn’t hold you if not for the way he pinned you there. For a long, hushed moment, neither of you moved.

Finally, he lifted his head. His lips brushed your temple, softer now, reverent in a way that made your chest ache. He eased back just enough to slide out of you, his body shuddering faintly as he did, before catching you in his arms the moment your knees buckled.

Without a word, he gathered you to him, your bare skin pressed to his cool chest, and carried you from the wall. Each step was measured, careful, as though he were bearing something sacred.

You buried your face against his throat, breathing him in, the aftershocks still quivering through your limbs. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His silence was heavy but not empty—it was steadying, grounding, like stone.

But he wasn’t done with you.

You felt it in the way his grip tightened when you shifted in his arms, in the low rasp of his breath against your hair. His body was still taut, his chest heaving under your cheek, every line of him alive with an unspent hunger that hadn’t burned out in release.

He set you down on the bed, lowering you carefully into the tangle of sheets. His lips brushed your forehead, tender, reverent—but then trailed lower, to your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Each kiss grew heavier, hotter, the coolness of his skin betraying the fire beneath.

When you whispered his name, trembling, his pale eyes caught yours—endless, unflinching, and still burning. “I told you,” he murmured, his voice low, devastating, “I would give you all of me.”

And as his mouth descended again, his hands sliding across your body with fresh intent, you realized he meant it. Every part of him. Every time. Until you could take no more.

Meanwhile, at Damien’s House

Damian slammed the door harder than he meant to, the sound rattling through the frame. Ophelia flinched where she stood in the hallway, clutching the little toy she never went anywhere without.

He forced a smile, the kind that showed too many teeth. “Go on,” he said, voice deceptively light. “TV time. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

She hesitated, eyes darting toward him, but obeyed, her small feet padding down the hall toward the flicker of the living room. The sound of cartoons rose, tinny and bright, utterly at odds with the storm building in his chest.

His mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel, her brows already knitting together. “What happened?” she asked, her voice calm, wary.

Damian dragged a hand through his hair, pacing the narrow space like a caged animal. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. “I saw her,” he spat. “She wasn’t alone.”

His mother’s brows rose. “Who did you see?”

His head snapped toward her, eyes burning. “Her. Y/N.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Then his mother let out a long breath, shaking her head, the towel still twisted in her hands. “Damn it, Damian… you’re still following her around?”

The words landed sharp, half-scolding, half-weary, and for a moment his chest felt like it might crack open. His jaw worked, the muscle in it twitching.

“She’s mine,” he said tightly, almost strangled. “She has no right to—”

His mother cut him off with a glare. “She has every right. You two were finished years ago. You’ve got Ophelia—that’s all you should be worried about.”

But instead of silencing him, the words tore something raw from his chest. His voice rose, jagged. “She’s mingling with the Endless.”

The towel slipped from his mother’s fingers, landing on the tiles with a soft, final sound. Her face blanched, all color draining as her eyes fixed on him. For a moment she looked as though she hadn’t heard correctly. “The… Endless?” she repeated, her voice thin. “No. No, they do not meddle with mortals. Not in that way.”

Damian’s laugh was harsh, empty. “I am certain.”

Her composure faltered, and she stepped toward him, urgency sparking in her voice. “Which one?” she demanded. “Tell me, which? Desire? If it is Desire, then it’s a game, nothing more—a cruel game, but survivable. You stay out of it and they will grow bored.”

He shook his head, eyes flashing. “No. Dream.”

The silence that followed was crushing. His mother stared at him, stricken, as though the air itself had been knocked out of her lungs. When she finally found her voice, it was hoarse, trembling with dread. “Dream? You are telling me that Morpheus—the Dream Lord himself—has taken interest in your little mortal girl?”

Damian’s chest heaved, his throat raw. “Yes. And he looked straight at me—as if he could unmake me right there.”

His mother’s hands trembled as she reached for the counter, bracing herself. Her eyes were sharp on him now, burning with fear and warning all at once.

“Son, listen to me. You must steer clear of this. You stand no chance. Do you understand me?” Her voice was low but hard as steel, each word striking like a lash. “Dream of the Endless is not like us. He is not like his siblings either. He is not one to show mercy, especially not against our kind.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice as though even speaking his name too loudly might draw his attention. “Dream does not forgive demons. He never has. He remembers every slight, every trespass. And you—” Her hand tightened on the counter, knuckles white. “You are not strong enough to survive his gaze, Damian. None of us are.”

Her eyes softened, just for a moment, though her voice did not lose its edge. “You are my son. I already lost your father to his wrath. I will not watch you make the same mistake.”

Damian’s fists clenched, his jaw working, fury twisting in his chest. But beneath the anger, something colder curled in his stomach. The way Morpheus had looked at him—calm, unflinching, as if snuffing him out would have cost nothing—lingered like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

Still, pride burned hotter. “I won’t be pushed aside,” he spat, his voice rough, defiant. “Endless or not. She was mine first. He has no claim.”

His mother’s eyes flared, her voice cracking sharp as a whip. “Damian!” She stepped toward him, her hands trembling, not from weakness but from fear she could not hide. “Do not speak like that. You think you are strong because you have lived four centuries? Because you can frighten mortals?” Her breath shuddered as she shook her head. “You are nothing to him. Less than nothing. And if you keep circling her while he is near, he will end you.”

Damian’s chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, his lips pulling back over his teeth in a snarl. “Then let him try.”

His mother’s face hardened, sorrow flooding her eyes. “That is exactly what your father said.”

The room fell silent, broken only by the tinny chatter of cartoons down the hall. The weight of her words pressed down like iron, but Damian only turned away, pacing again, fury snapping in every movement, the shadow of fear buried under layers of pride.

His mother’s voice cut through the silence, sharper now, trembling with the force of memory. “You think I do not remember? I watched your father defy Dream. I watched him dragged from the Waking into his realm, body and soul bound in chains you could not see. Do you know what Morpheus did, Damian?”

Damian froze mid-step, his shoulders tight, jaw clenched.

“He silenced him,” she hissed. “Took his voice until he could not even scream. Burned every dream from his mind until there was nothing left but emptiness. He kept him like that for years—centuries—until he was nothing but a husk. And when he was done?” Her breath hitched, her knuckles white against the counter. “He left him rotting in his own torment. That is what Dream of the Endless does to demons who cross him.”

Damian’s breath came heavy, ragged, fury warring with unease across his face. But his mother pressed on, her eyes wet, fierce. “I will not lose you the way I lost him. Do you hear me? Do not provoke him. Do not follow her. Because if he decides you are in his way, Damian…” Her voice cracked, but the words still cut like a blade. “There will be nothing left of you to bury.”

The cartoons carried on in the other room, bright and oblivious, a cruel contrast to the silence that swallowed them both.

@crispyduckpirate @stranger-chan @hiraethmae

@friendstolobsters @queenofstresss @iamempty13

@marsmallow433 @eveiiiscorner @villain-in-the-dark @boywivlove @anatheladybug

@new-author3 @drunkennunicornn

@sandmanmasterlistblog @phythius @miarabanana @ladyofhisrelam @gemtales @peterpangirl21 @zafirina12 @li22ie2017 @slimearchon @dreams-a-little-dream @sriasavet @peterpangirl21 @ifnotredthenwhite @hopingtocleaemedschool @arya-woodland @sighingforalongtime @radioactivewatson @bubblegumflamingos @chugjugg @eriseffigy

[therealmhs]

To stay in the dream

To stay in the dream by Aziazel69 Sandman's rewritten story A version in which Corinthian was raised and remained in the Dreaming, fascinated by the perpetual. Whenever he fled, he always returned to the Dreaming. A change from the first season to more violent fights and conflicts with real threats. Words: 1821, Chapters: 2/10, Language: English Fandoms: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/F, M/M Characters: The Corinthian (Sandman), Lucien | Lucienne (The Sandman), Cain (The Sandman), Abel (The Sandman), Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Lucifer Morningstar (Vertigo Comics), Lady Johanna Constantine, Desire of the Endless, Destiny of the Endless, Delirium of the Endless, Despair of the Endless, Matthew the Raven Relationships: The Corinthian/Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, The Corinthian/Dream of the Endless, Dream of the Endless & Hob Gadling Additional Tags: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus is Bad at Feelings, Mpreg | Male Pregnancy, The Corinthian is His Own Warning (The Sandman), Top The Corinthian (The Sandman), Protective Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, POV Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Bottom Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Possessive The Corinthian (The Sandman)

[therealmhs]

The Morpheus & Nuala relationship ? Hello ? A romance that tragically never happened even though there were clearly feelings on both sides ? I absolutely died for these two. I need fanfiction about them. At least, way more than what's on ao3.

And yes, I know that in the comics Morpheus doesn't return Nuala's feelings, but clearly in the show he does, even in interviews it's suggested that it's a mutual connection.

[therealmhs]

Athena's Gift

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Mortal Reader

Part 5: The Date Night

PLEASE COMMENT AND ENGAGE. IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME. I LOVE YOUR PREDICTIONS!

Damien’s voice was still in your head, sharp and unforgiving. They had a way of burrowing deep, of finding old wounds you thought had long since scabbed over.

You remembered the first time you met him—seventeen, too young to know better, too drawn to the strange gravity he carried. He hadn’t seemed much older then, though now you wondered if you’d simply been too blinded by that unplaceable allure to notice. He was your first—your first kiss, your first everything—and that kind of imprint was hard to shake, even after years.

But the truth was, you were never really together. Not beyond that first rush of romance, the dizzy flutters of something new. You had never wanted more. You were too young, too unready, and what you wanted most was space. He wouldn’t have it. He couldn’t. The more you tried to pull away, the tighter he held.

You never lived with him. You lived with your father, and your mother—until she passed away. That house, and their presence, was your refuge. It was your father who often stepped in, whose steady presence kept Damien at bay when his temper grew too sharp.

He had always been different. Not just from other boys your age, but from other people, full stop. He never spoke about his father, only muttered once that he lived “far away” and left it at that. His mother you knew—ordinary enough, a woman who offered you cups of tea in a kitchen that always smelled faintly of lavender detergent. She would press your hand, whisper that she hoped Damien was treating you well. Sometimes she’d linger in the doorway, eyes soft with worry, as if she suspected the truth but couldn’t quite bring herself to say it aloud.

At first, his intensity had been intoxicating. Later, it turned to chains. He wanted to know where you were, who you were with, what you were thinking. And when you pushed back—when you said no, when you tried to claim space that was yours—he hurt you. Not always in ways that left bruises where others could see, but enough that you learned how much it cost to resist him.

The one thing he never did, though, was lay a hand on Ophelia. His love for her was fierce, possessive in its own way, but it was real. That was the truth that cut deepest: he could wound you and worship her in the same breath.

His mother knew it too. She became your only ally in that house, slipping you tissues for your split lip or a blanket when you’d been sent outside in the cold after an argument. She’d murmur that he loved you, that he just didn’t know how to show it right—but you stopped believing that long before you stopped needing her kindness.

When Ophelia came, you had hoped it might change him. In some ways, it did. He softened in her presence, quieted the sharpest edges. But behind closed doors, the same storms brewed. By the time the court battles began, you had a list of injuries too long to recite, but none of them touched your daughter. That was what the judge saw: a father who loved his child, who never raised a hand to her. And so, when she turned four, the arrangement was set: overnight visits, twice a week.

It had drained you to fight, but it had nearly destroyed you to concede.

He had calmed himself after that, or at least learned to mask the edges of what lay underneath. For Ophelia’s sake, you endured.

And when you met someone new, you never told them the truth. You didn’t say that your ex was possessive, controlling, sometimes cruel. You didn’t want pity, didn’t want that shadow to cast itself over something fragile and good. Instead, you always said the same thing, neat and simple: he’s a present father. It wasn’t a lie. It was good enough.

But deep down, you worried. You worried eery time.

Because it was when you tried to move on that his old venom returned. He couldn’t stand the thought of you with someone else. Three men had come and gone—brief flings, none of them lasting. Perhaps they hadn’t been strong enough. Perhaps they’d sensed the shadow of Damien hanging over you, the way his presence lingered in every corner of your life.

Now, as you thought of the man you were seeing—the one who felt different, who made you hope—there was a coil of fear in your gut. You prayed he wouldn’t run as the others had. You prayed Damien wouldn’t sink his teeth in this time.

And now that he already knew about him—the new man, whose real name you didn’t even know—you worried.

Because Damien always did.

The Thursday Date

Despite the thought gnawing in the back of your mind—that Damien always found ways to ruin anything good—you pushed it down. Tonight was not about him. Tonight was about the man who made you feel something steady, something rare. You told yourself you wouldn’t let fear eclipse it. Not this time.

For the whole day, nerves were already prickling your skin and then, at exactly five, as though he’d stepped straight out of the clock, there came the knock at your door. Three deliberate raps, steady, expectant.

You hesitated only a breath before opening it. He stood there, as immovable and composed as always, coat draped like shadow across his shoulders. The sight of him at your doorstep—like a figure conjured, not someone who should knock—made your chest twist.

So you leaned in and kissed him, softly, almost tentative. His lips brushed yours cool, still. When you pulled back, you managed a nervous laugh. “Hope that was okay.”

His gaze held yours, steady and unblinking. “We have lain together. Why would it not be?”

You smiled despite yourself, shaking your head. “Funny way of putting it.”

He only tilted his head, as though unsure what was funny at all.

You grabbed your coat, slipping into your shoes while his presence filled the small entryway, quiet and commanding. It was strange—he could stand in utter silence and somehow make the air feel full, saturated with his being.

“Ready?” you asked, half to break the weight of it.

“Yes.”

The walk across town was cool, the sky dimming into that dusky blue where streetlamps flickered to life. He matched your pace without comment, the heels of his boots soft but steady on the pavement. Every so often you caught yourself glancing at him, at the contrast of his coat and pale face against the glow of shopfronts, like he didn’t belong here at all—and yet somehow did, simply because he willed it so.

Without quite meaning to, you brushed your knuckles against the back of his hand as you walked. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move away—simply let it happen, as though it had always been that way.

You felt the words pressing in your chest. I hope he won’t hate it. The place you’d chosen wasn’t glamorous, not polished. Certainly not the kind of theatre most would expect to bring a date.

When you arrived, you saw his eyes take in the converted warehouse space—timber beams still raw, old boxes stacked against walls, folding tables scattered with bottles of cheap wine. People wandered in ripped jeans and hoodies, laughing easily. No curtain, no orchestra pit. Just a bare stage and a hum of chatter.

Your stomach tightened. “It’s… a modern interpretation. No costumes. No sets. Just the words, really.”

He didn’t answer immediately, only stood still, gaze sweeping the room. You braced yourself for disdain.

Instead, he said quietly, “This is very different to what I had expected.”

Your heart thudded. “Not elegant enough?” you teased, though your voice came softer than you meant.

“Not elegant at all. Yet it frees the story. Stripped of ornament, it may reveal itself as it is meant to be told.”

Relief broke through you, warm and unsteady. “I… guess that’s the idea.”

You found two rough wooden boxes near the middle, turned sideways to serve as makeshift seats. The surfaces were uneven, marked with old paint and scratches. You sat down close together, knees nearly touching, balancing your paper cups of wine on the edges. He folded himself down with perfect composure, as though even a box were a throne when he occupied it.

The play began. Jeans and sneakers strode across the stage, voices raw and unpolished. A woman sang a single line with a guitar slung across her shoulder. A man poured himself wine mid-speech and passed the bottle into the crowd. Laughter flickered, but the verse carried on, timeless and bright.

You sipped your own cheap wine, glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His face was still, but his gaze sharp, attentive. He wasn’t mocking, wasn’t distant. He was listening, truly listening, as though every line belonged to him.

And when one actor, barefoot in rolled-up jeans, delivered a soliloquy so stripped and aching it made your skin prickle, you thought—just for an instant—you saw the faintest ghost of a smile touch his lips.

The story lived. And beside him, so close you felt the brush of his coat sleeve against your arm, you began to wonder if maybe that was enough.

The lights dimmed—though not fully, just enough that the chatter stilled and all eyes shifted toward the bare boards of the stage. There was no curtain to rise, no overture. One of the actors simply stepped forward in jeans and a t-shirt, holding nothing but the words themselves.

You stole a glance at Morpheus, wondering if he’d flinch at the casualness of it. But he sat very still, hands folded on his knees, gaze fixed and unblinking.

The first exchange came rough, laughter spilling out of the audience when another actor pulled a phone from his pocket mid-scene. Yet the words—old, solemn, familiar—still carried their weight, clashing strangely but not unpleasantly with the modern intrusion.

“They’re leaning into the humour,” you whispered, leaning just enough that your shoulder pressed lightly to his.

“So the truth may be heard without disguise.” He murmured it without looking away from the stage, as if the line had been carved in stone.

The performance rolled forward. A woman perched cross-legged on the edge of the stage with a guitar, singing a single verse as though the play had always meant it to be sung. The audience held still, hushed.

You caught the faintest shift in him then, the way his head tilted just slightly, as if acknowledging the echo of something he already knew.

Later, an actor staggered across the stage with a wine bottle, his monologue slurred just enough to feel reckless, alive. Mid-speech, he poured a splash into a spectator’s paper cup. Ripples of laughter spread, but the speech did not lose its ache—it grew sharper, more human.

You felt Morpheus exhale beside you, not quite a sigh. His pale eyes tracked every word, every stumble, as though absorbing something ancient made new.

By the second act, the language had pulled everyone in. Hoodies and sneakers, beanbags and paper cups—all of it vanished into the verse. The story bared itself, stripped of costumes and sets, and somehow that rawness let the emotions bleed more freely.

One actor, barefoot, jeans rolled at the ankle, delivered a soliloquy that cut through the warehouse like glass. You felt it settle deep in your chest. And when you turned, just briefly, you saw it land in him too: the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of expression so subtle it might have been imagined. But it was there.

He was not untouched.

By the time the final scene unfolded, you weren’t watching the stage as much as you were watching him. The set may have been plain, the performers modern, the wine cheap—but for the first time you understood he wasn’t above it. He was in it. Listening. Letting it live.

The applause rose, raw and generous, filling the warehouse with sound. The actors bowed—awkwardly, joyfully—in their jeans and sneakers, wine still in hand. You clapped along, but your attention was split, drawn sideways to the man beside you. He did not cheer or smile, but there was a stillness in him, a weight that told you he had felt it.

Afterward, people milled about the makeshift bar at the back, refilling paper cups from bottles already half-empty. You took another glass of wine, the cheap red staining your tongue, and returned to where he still sat on the rough wooden box as though carved there.

You eased down beside him, close enough your thigh brushed his. “So? What did you think?”

He turned his head, eyes pale and sharp, but softened in the way they always were when he lingered on you. “It surprised me. Shakespeare wrote this in sixteen hundred and one. He did not write it for noble courts, nor solely for the wealthy, but for all who could gather to listen. It was a story intended for the common people—folklore, passion, betrayal, wonder. That has not changed at all. What he envisioned has grown with the times. Here, tonight, it lives still. As it was meant to.”

You blinked, your mouth parting slightly. The way he said it—quiet, certain—made the air stir against your skin. You studied him, the sharp line of his jaw, the dark fall of his hair, the way his voice lingered as though the words themselves carried centuries in them.

And then it struck you—how natural the knowledge sounded in his mouth, how intimate, as though he were not just reciting history but recalling it. For a breathless moment you wondered, absurdly, if he had known the man himself.

The thought made you laugh under your breath, but the flush rising in you had nothing to do with humour. You thought instead: God, that’s actually incredibly intelligent. And sexy.

Because it was. The breadth of it, the sense that he didn’t just know things but understood them, carried them in his marrow. It sent a little shiver through you, one you disguised by sipping your wine.

“You make it sound like you were there.” Your tone was teasing, though softly, almost afraid he might answer.

His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough to leave you unsettled.

The applause faded, the crowd spilling out into the night, voices high with wine and talk. You lingered only long enough to drain the last sip in your cup before standing, tugging lightly at his sleeve.

“Come on.”

His brow arched, the faintest shadow of question in his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere better.” You grinned, tugging again until he rose, tall and inevitable beside you.

The crowd poured out into the night, voices buoyant with cheap wine and laughter. You tugged at his sleeve again, weaving through the press of people.

“This way.”

He followed, tall and unyielding at your side, though the warehouse gave way quickly to the open street. The night air was crisp, carrying the hum of neon signs and the hiss of frying oil. The closer you came, the stronger the scents became—grilled meat, garlic, sweet fried dough—and soon the buzz of the market spilled around you: folding stalls strung with fairy lights, hand-painted menus pinned to boards, families and students leaning over paper trays in a riot of noise and colour.

You reached for his hand without thinking, your fingers slipping into his. His step faltered for the smallest fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise ghosting across his otherwise unreadable profile. But he did not withdraw.

He let you hold him.

He remembered—vividly—the last time he had walked in the Waking World beside mortals in such a way. Centuries ago, when “courtship” was marked by tokens and chaperoned parlours, when hands only brushed in the briefest of shadows, never openly. This small, ordinary contact had never been part of it. Yet here, tonight, he had seen it: others in the crowd reaching for each other easily, hands clasped as naturally as breathing.

So when you did it, he allowed it. Not because it was familiar, but because it was you.

You glanced up, cheeks warm from more than the wine, ready to let go if he seemed displeased. But he simply walked on, hand steady in yours, as though he had always belonged in the press of mortal life.

“Hungry?” you asked, gesturing at the stalls.

“I do not require food,” he answered, voice as level as ever and you thought that this was simply his way of saying that he was not hungry.

“Yeah, but you can still try it,” you teased, tugging him toward towards your favourite food stall.

His gaze lingered on your hand, still clasping his. For a moment you thought you saw discomfort there—or was it confusion?—a faint flicker in his eyes that made your chest tighten. He gave no explanation, no hint of what moved behind that quiet expression. He only allowed it, as though the simple act of your fingers laced with his was reason enough to follow where you led.

You glanced up quickly, pulse skipping. “You don’t mind, do you?”

His head tilted, that same unreadable stillness settling over him. He regarded you for a long moment, long enough that heat prickled across your skin. And then, at last, his voice came, low and even. “If I did, I would not allow it.”

Relief loosened something tight in your chest. His tone gave nothing away, but his hand did not leave yours. If anything, his fingers shifted—settling more firmly around your own, as if to anchor the choice he had made.

The press of the market closed around you—fairy lights strung from poles, the air alive with voices and the hiss of frying oil. You tugged him toward a smaller stall where the scent of sugar and spice drifted thick and warm.

Behind the glass, dishes of syrup-soaked pastries gleamed under the lights. You ordered one, a shallow dish piled high with golden fritters drenched in honey and dusted with cinnamon.

The vendor handed over the shallow dish piled with golden fritters, syrup glistening under the lights, two wooden forks tucked inside. You pressed it into his hands, keeping one fork for yourself.

“We’ll share,” you said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

You speared one of the pastries and bit into it, syrup warm and clinging. Sweetness bloomed across your tongue, hot and messy, making you laugh softly as you licked a trace of honey from your lip.

His eyes followed the movement, steady, unblinking.

Grinning, you scooped up another piece and held it up toward him. “Here. Try.”

He regarded you for a long moment, as though uncertain why you wouldn’t simply hand him the fork. But when you held it there, unwavering, he leaned forward at last. His lips closed around the morsel, cool against the edge of your fingers. He ate it without breaking your gaze.

You swallowed, suddenly warm. “So?”

His voice came low, measured. “It is… very sweet.”

You laughed under your breath, half-flustered, half-thrilled. “Good sweet or bad sweet?”

His eyes lingered on yours, steady, unreadable. Then at last, softly— “It is pleasant.”

You arched a brow, trying to smother your grin. “Pleasant? That’s the best you can do?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. “It is the truth.”

You shook your head, biting back a laugh as you speared another piece from the dish. “You know, most people would say something like ‘delicious’ or ‘amazing.’ Pleasant sounds like you’re describing the weather.”

His gaze followed the fork in your hand, then rose back to yours. “Words need not be extravagant to be sincere.”

Your grin softened, caught between amusement and something warmer, deeper. You leaned a little closer, teasing anyway. “Well, I’ll take pleasant. For now.”

Before you could spear another bite, he reached for the fork still resting in the dish. His fingers curled around it with careful precision, lifting one syrup-glazed piece. He held it for a moment, gaze fixed on you—not forcing, not assuming, but offering.

“Then it is your turn,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught. Still, you leaned forward, lips brushing the edge of the fork as you took the pastry from him. Honey clung to your mouth, and for a moment you swore his eyes dropped to the trace of sweetness before meeting yours again.

“Well?” he asked, tone almost—almost—curious.

You smiled, licking the syrup from your lip. “Delicious.”

Then you noticed—a dusting of sugar clung faintly to his own mouth, caught at the corner of his lip. Without thinking, you reached up, brushing it gently away with your thumb. His gaze snapped to yours at the touch, sharp and unblinking, but he didn’t move.

Something in you tipped forward. Your hand lingered against his jaw as you rose onto your toes, kissing him softly, sweetly. For a heartbeat he was utterly still beneath you, lips cool, unreadable—then he allowed it, the faintest pressure answering yours before you pulled back.

Heat raced through you, leaving you breathless. You managed a nervous laugh. “Just making sure you got the full experience.”

He said nothing, only regarded you with that quiet, unshakable gaze that made it impossible to tell if you’d startled him or pleased him.

Clearing your throat, you tugged at his hand again, needing the movement to ground yourself. “Come on. One more stop.”

He followed, tall and inevitable beside you as the crowd pressed closer. At the end of the row, under a canopy strung with fairy lights, a vendor poured honey-gold mead into clay cups, the scent of spice and warmth curling through the air.

You grinned, ordering two and handing one to him. “Alright, this is tradition. You have to try it.”

He glanced down at the clay cup, pale fingers curling around it as though testing its weight. His gaze flicked briefly back to you before he spoke, voice low. “Mead.”

You smiled, raising your own. “Yes.”

He lifted the cup and drank. For a moment his expression remained as still as ever, unreadable. But then—just the faintest flicker, a shadow of thought passing across his face, as though he were recalling something long buried.

“The taste has improved,” he said at last, quiet but certain. His eyes lingered on the golden surface of the drink, not on you. “In the past centuries.”

Your breath caught, a laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “Centuries? You make it sound like you’ve been drinking it since it was invented.”

Something at the corner of his mouth curved—too small to be called a smile, but enough to unsettle you. He gave no reply, only raised the cup again, as though the mead itself required his full attention.

You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “You’re not serious, are you?”

His gaze lowered to you, pale and steady. The silence stretched, deliberate, until you felt heat climb your neck. Then, softly— “Perhaps.”

You shook your head, laughing under your breath, though your stomach twisted at the way he said it. “You’re impossible.”

“So I have been told,” he murmured, taking another sip.

You tried to laugh it off, but the words lingered, heavy with the weight of something you couldn’t quite name.

You drained the last of your cup and set it aside, tugging lightly at his hand again, needing the movement to break the spell. He let you lead, his grip steady, unyielding. For once you didn’t care about the crowd pressing around you, the fairy lights overhead, or the syrup still clinging faintly to your lips. You leaned closer, your laughter spilling soft as your shoulder brushed his arm—an easy, thoughtless display of affection.

That was when you saw him.

Damien.

He stood only a few paces ahead in the tide of people, a greasy paper takeaway bag dangling from one hand. His eyes had already found you. Not just you—him. The sight of Morpheus at your side. The way his gaze narrowed, darkened, told you this was not coincidence. He had followed, even if he’d dressed it in excuses.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Oh, shit.”

Beside you, Morpheus tilted his head, watching you with that steady, measuring calm. “What is it? You seem troubled.”

“No—let’s just go.” You tugged lightly at his sleeve, desperate to move, but Morpheus didn’t step. He followed the line of your stare, eyes falling on the man across the crowd.

It was only a moment—but you saw it. The recognition in Damien’s gaze, sharp and cutting. Not recognition of a face he knew, perhaps, but something deeper, primal. A creature born of shadow looking at something far older, far greater, and knowing instinctively what he saw.

Morpheus did not flinch. He did not shift, did not avert his gaze. He looked nothing like a man caught or uncertain. On the contrary—he stood like a pillar in the chaos, still and absolute, the very air bending around him. The crowd seemed to thin between them, laughter and voices dulling under the weight of his presence.

Then he did something subtle, deliberate: he released your hand. Not with unease, but with an air of cold formality, as if to say: I do not need to hold her to stand here.

You stepped forward, voice cutting through the hush. “What the hell are you doing? Following me, Damien?”

He shook his head once, too quick, lifting the takeaway bag as though it were a shield. “No. I was just getting food for Ophelia, mother and I.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You hate food markets.”

For an instant, anger flared across his face, the kind you knew all too well. But then his gaze flicked sideways, back to the man at your shoulder. His bravado faltered. Something passed over him—a hesitation, a tightening, as though his body itself recognized the weight of what stood beside you.

And then, shockingly, he stepped back. Not toward you, not forward into the fight you expected, but away. His jaw locked, his grip crushing the paper bag, but his eyes betrayed him. For the first time, Damien looked like a man measuring danger and choosing retreat.

Still, he forced the words out, low and sharp, meant for you alone.  “See you tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a threat, not exactly—more a reminder. Of Ophelia. Of the tie between you that he would never let you forget. But the edges of it didn’t land the way they once had. They sounded thinner. Strained.

He turned, shoulders tight, and disappeared into the crowd.

You stood frozen, your heart racing, the echo of Damien’s words tangled with the hum of the market. See you tomorrow. He had never backed down from you. Never.

But here, with Morpheus at your side, it was different. Almost as if he was afraid.

Silence stretched. The market buzzed on, oblivious, but Morpheus turned his gaze on you—pale and unyielding, sharp as starlight.

“He is your child’s father.”

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t expected him to say it so directly, like a fact laid bare. “Yes,” you admitted quietly.

He did not move, did not blink. His gaze held you, steady as stone. “You seemed troubled when you saw him.”

You tried to summon a smile, to smooth it over, but the words wouldn’t come.

His voice was low, unrelenting. “He has hurt you.”

The air left your lungs in a sharp breath. For a moment you hated how easily he’d seen it, how the truth sat naked between you when you had spent years hiding it from everyone else.

“It was a long time ago,” you murmured, your voice thin. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

But Morpheus’s eyes did not soften. They burned pale and steady in the glow of the market lights, and you had the uncanny sense he was not asking. He already knew.

Still, he pressed. “Did he harm you?”

You swallowed, heat rushing to your face. “Yes. But never her. Never Ophelia.”

That last part came out sharp, instinctive, as though you had to defend your daughter even from the thought of it.

Morpheus inclined his head slowly, though the light in his gaze only hardened. “And yet he still walks free. Still speaks to you as though he has claim.”

Your chest ached at the quiet fury threading through his voice, restrained but unmistakable. You shook your head quickly, reaching for his hand again, needing to steady him as much as yourself. “Please. Don’t. Not here. Not now.”

His gaze lingered on you for a long, heavy beat—then, at last, he allowed you to tug him back into the crowd.

But the promise in his silence was clear: this was not finished.

***

The walk home was quieter than you expected. The market’s hum faded behind you, replaced by the muted hush of the streets, lamplight stretching long shadows across the pavement. His hand remained in yours, cool and steady, but he said nothing.

You stole a glance at him, his face composed, unreadable as stone. Yet something in the air around him still thrummed—a tension barely leashed.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, the words spilling before you could stop them. “You didn’t need to see that. Or… him.”

His eyes flicked toward you, pale and sharp in the dark. “You do not need to apologise for what he is.”

You bit your lip, looking down at the path ahead. “I just don’t want him to poison this. Tonight. Us.”

For a moment, silence stretched. Then, softer than you expected, he said: “He will not.”

The words were simple, but the weight behind them settled in your bones, steadying you. He didn’t promise revenge, didn’t threaten—but you heard the certainty.

The rest of the walk passed with the rhythm of your steps syncing to his, the brush of his coat against your arm, the cool press of his fingers around yours. The night air smelled of damp stone and distant rain, and though your heart still beat too fast, it wasn’t only from fear.

By the time you reached your building, the streets had quieted. You slowed at the steps leading to your door, reluctant to let go of his hand, reluctant for the night to end.

You turned to him, nerves fluttering again as your back brushed against the door. The lamplight caught in his hair, pale against the dark of his coat. He looked like he belonged anywhere but here—yet here he was, standing on your doorstep as if he’d always been meant to.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice almost lost to the hush of the street. “For coming tonight. For… everything.”

His eyes lingered on you, steady and unreadable. “I would not have been elsewhere.”

Your lips curved despite yourself, the warmth in your chest betraying you. You hesitated, searching his face, then added in a rush— “Do you want to come in?”

For a long moment, he was silent, gaze flicking past you to the door, then back to your face. The pause stretched, the air thick with it.

At last, he inclined his head, just slightly. “If you wish it.”

Your breath caught. You turned quickly, fumbling with your keys, your hands trembling just enough to make the lock stick before it finally gave way. You pushed the door open, glancing back over your shoulder at him—tall, composed, inevitable.

And when he stepped inside, it felt as though the quiet of the night came with him, wrapping around your walls, reshaping the air you breathed.

@crispyduckpirate @stranger-chan @hiraethmae

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@marsmallow433 @eveiiiscorner @villain-in-the-dark @boywivlove @anatheladybug

@new-author3 @drunkennunicornn

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[therealmhs]

I have a serious case of 'I can fix him' or 'Come as you are' for Morpheus, honestly even a 'I would make him worse' would work for me, really I would accept any version of him. RIP to any morals, that anthropomorphic personification drives me insane 🫦🙈

[therealmhs]

Falling for that certain smile

[therealmhs]

You came to me out of nothing

Your beauty almost killed me

and the ocean left me cold

[tina dico]

[therealmhs]

[therealmhs]

[therealmhs]